Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Four
Jack Crawford stopped in front of the steps of the condominium where Tim and Will were sitting watching the bustle of forensics passing inside.
"I read your report," he said, a formidable presence, safe behind sunglasses and with the sun positioned to his advantage at his back.
Tim raised a hand against the glare, squinting into the light, eyeing the grim man in charge and waiting for the criticism that seemed likely to follow his statement, but none came. He ventured a response. "Glad somebody did. I used Spell Check and everything."
"It was very thorough. I'm impressed. It seems to me that you understand more about the game of chess than you let on yesterday."
An eyebrow to acknowledge the truth. "I play online sometimes."
Will leaned over and whispered. "I wouldn't admit that if I were you."
"You want me to lie to the head of the Behavioral Sciences Unit of the FBI?" Tim faked shock.
Jack looked from one to the other. "I'm glad to see you two are getting along so well."
Tim wondered if it was a skill they taught at Quantico, the ability to say one thing while your face expressed the exact opposite sentiment. Certainly Jack Crawford was an expert at it. He was tired of the Feds and had a desk loaded with work to get through and he ran a number of completely inappropriate retorts through his head, searching for something to get him kicked off the case. Fortunately his phone rang before his mouth got him into trouble and he answered it while thinking up interesting descriptions for the man in charge of the FBI's Behavioral Sciences Unit.
It was Art. It was a situation – a situation that required a particular skill set and Tim Gutterson was the only one in law enforcement in Lexington who had that particular skill set, had it at a level of craftsmanship that was rare enough to warrant other branches calling him out for it. An experienced sniper was required – one who didn't miss.
He hung up and let out a long breath. The situation would get him out from under Jack Crawford's glare but he didn't like the price he'd likely have to pay for the escape.
"I gotta go," he said, pushed suddenly and wearily up off the step.
"Not so fast," Jack said, holding out a hand. "We're not finished here yet."
"You'll have to finish without me." Tim walked past the hand and headed toward his vehicle.
"I haven't said you could leave." Jack restated his orders more forcefully. "We're not done with you yet."
Tim didn't bother to turn around. "Take it up with my boss."
"Brian," the general barked. "Go with him." Keep an eye on him was implied.
"I'll go," Will offered.
The statement caught Jack Crawford by surprise and Will took advantage of it, hustled after the Marshal and out of range of a 'no.'
Will was running away, a bit cowardly perhaps, but he was tired of eyes always on him, searching, wondering, measuring, the guilt, the distrust, the animosity, sometimes a whole mix. The anonymity he felt with the Lexington Marshals was a vacation. He hadn't realized until Kentucky how badly he needed one. It was the best drug he'd ever tried, anonymity, and he'd tried a few, prescribed and not prescribed. The only trouble was, this one was likely highly addictive.
He imagined for a moment hijacking Tim and his car and demanding he drive him into the middle of Montana and drop him there. It only took a second for Will to come up with the few things wrong with this plan, things like: The Marshal would probably disarm him and club him over the head. And even if the Marshal decided not to bother, the vehicle likely had a transponder and someone would catch up with them before they got halfway across Kentucky. And most importantly, who would look after his dogs?
He climbed into the passenger seat as Tim started the engine. Tim looked sideways at him but didn't say anything. Will got the distinct impression that he was thinking along the same lines – just how far can I get from here before they drag me back?
The drive was silent, no jokes, no banter, the man beside him drawing himself inward, and Will wondered what the call was about. It must be bad news to have affected the Marshal this much, but Will had no desire to ask about it. The silence was all he needed, and clearly, the Marshal didn't need anything from him either.
He felt selfish. It felt good. He closed his eyes and appreciated the gift.
Tim drove quickly through the streets, pulled the car into a blockade of cruisers, got out and jogged over to where Art was standing ready with a rifle and an earpiece, accepted them with a terse nod and continued without stopping, forward into a sea of blue shirts and serious faces.
Will followed, forgotten, kept his distance and observed. The Marshal crouched behind a patrol car and surveyed the scene, turned and surveyed the buildings behind him then ran a block back and up to a utility ladder on a short building.
Will trotted after him, intercepting him at the bottom of the ladder. "What's going on?" he asked, his eyes fixed on the rifle, recognizing the model and its purpose.
"Always kids. I always get the call when there's kids involved. I hate it," Tim grumbled, more to himself than his shadow. "Everyone's too chickenshit to take the shot." He slipped the rifle over his shoulder as he bitched, then maneuvered quickly up the ladder and disappeared over the top.
Will considered his options – stay on the ground or follow. His curiosity won out and he took a breath and climbed to the roof, crouched needlessly and ran to the front edge where Tim was setting himself up. It's what Jack Crawford wanted anyway, he told himself, getting onto his stomach on the hot asphalt roof, someone to study the Marshal, look for something to move the man up or down on the list of suspects.
Tim was completely engrossed in his task, mechanical and meticulous, so far away from anything now but this precise and present moment that Will couldn't read a single emotion from his face. Watching the sniper carefully, Will imagined himself as Hannibal Lecter, objectively studying his subjects, coldly observing, a professional interest, intent on the interplay between action and reaction, playing God in a small way, fulfilling narcissistic desires. And he understood Lecter better, at least on the surface, snatched a glimpse of how putting people in horrible situations just to see what happened had fascinated the psychopath. The difference was that Hannibal viewed it as a hobby – he enjoyed it; for Will it was his job – he had to force himself to look and he hated it.
"Plug your ears."
The command, hissed sharply between teeth, snapped Will out of his thoughts and he turned his head quickly to look the 300 yards to the target. He couldn't make out any features on the man; he looked improbably far away to hit and yet Will knew – he'd read about it at least – that it was a short shot for a trained sniper. He turned back again to read Tim's face, gleaning what he could from the stillness and concentration and jerked with surprise when the trigger was pulled and the shot split the air. He covered his ears too late.
"Shit!"
He squeezed his eyes tightly against the ringing and pressed his hands hard against the sides of his head. Would he ever learn? When he opened his eyes again, Tim was already up, kneeling back, flicking on the safety.
"Did you get him?" Will asked and realized belatedly how stupid that sounded, how childish.
Tim just looked at him blankly then reached up and removed the earpiece from one ear and a foam plug from the other. "What?"
"That's some gift," Will stated, glad his first reaction went unheard.
"Gift?" Tim repeated, stood up and brushed off. "Yeah, sure." The voice was cold and the expression was cold too, but the confusion of emotions behind the eyes left Will reeling.
And there was that face again, definitely deflecting. Tim slung the rifle back over his shoulder and walked to the ladder, moving easily onto it and down the side of the building and out of sight.
Will's eyes lingered on the metal handholds at the top of the ladder where Tim had vanished. Then he stood and turned, looking out toward a small park, the local police leading a line of daycare kids to a waiting bus, and beyond the activity a man on his back by the tallest slide, death lying on display on a sunny summer afternoon. What would push a man to this? He tasted at the despair and anger with his imagination then brushed it aside and steered his thoughts instead to the feelings that might be circulating through the mind of the other man, the one behind the high-powered rifle.
Duty. And resignation, the aversion to killing beaten into submission, the dull acceptance of no alternatives, a last resort – very unlike a psychopath.
A psychopath has alternatives, Will recited to himself, he chooses to do what he does. On the other hand, maybe killing the lousy chess player gave the sniper a moment to enjoy choices? But Will knew that was forcing the role onto a suspect rather than having the suspect slide neatly into the role. No, Will couldn't see it. The evidence didn't support it somehow. Now, if he could only come up with a clear reason to convince Jack Crawford, something to point to.
It came to him like always, all of a sudden, one of his infamous intuitive leaps.
"Psychopaths don't drink to forget," he said aloud.
When Will finally made it down the ladder and found Tim, he was the center of a group that could've been mistaken as a tailgate party in full swing, minus the barbecue. Tim was the only one looking out of place, sullen amid the smiles and congratulations and back slaps. Will waded into the melee and tapped Tim's shoulder, motioned to the car. Jack Crawford, he mouthed over the competing voices, I have to go, and an apologetic look that meant, you understand, of course, waved his cell phone.
Tim nodded and followed him back through the impromptu celebration, stopping to pick up his rifle case from Art's car as he went past.
Art said something in his ear, just for him, and Tim smiled and dropped his head down and Art patted his shoulder and let him go then directed a look at Will that suggested he'd skin him alive if he caused any trouble for his sniper.
Will wasn't certain he could reassure him but whipped up a supportive smile nonetheless. He felt out of his depth watching Tim break down the rifle with practiced movements, confident, then stow it carefully in the trunk. He felt like he was intruding on something private and turned away and hid in the car. A minute later Tim slid stiffly into the driver's seat. The car door buffered them against the street noise, muting everything as it closed, and Tim drew in a long breath and let it out slowly.
"Where to?"
"I could use a drink," said Will, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes.
Tim kept his fixed straight ahead out the windshield, watching the milling at the scene.
Will wasn't sure Tim had heard him and was just about to repeat himself when Tim finally spoke again.
"What does Crawford want?"
"He wants us," Will said, very deliberately, "to go have…a drink."
Tim finally glanced at his passenger, questioning. "He didn't call?"
"No," Will confessed. "But I'm sure he'd like us to have a drink. It's been a long couple of days. He's a reasonable man…mostly."
Tim snorted.
"If we're going to skip out, we should probably not go to that bar near the hotel," Will suggested.
Tim nodded, started the car, put it in gear and backed away from the tailgate party.
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